The Wrong Shade of Red
by Zelz Saihitei
Summary: [complete] Three years is a long time. And yet that one shade of red is still haunting her mind... [femmeslash]
1. part one

This is a story that has been sitting around for about a month and a half. I wrote some of it, really liked it, stopped, started again, and on and on. I reread it again a few days ago and really liked it. I consider it a pseudo-sequel to "Partir," though this story actually came first. It's very dark and melancholy, like "Partir," and is in Hermione's perspective. I hope you enjoy it.

DISCLAIMER: All characters, sans Hannah, are property of J.K. Rowling and her many corporate affiliates. They have been borrowed for entertainment purposes, and this story is not gaining unsolicited profit in any way, shape, or form.

WARNINGS: self-mutilation, emo lyrics.

_  
Well, as for now I'm gonna hear the saddest songs  
__And sit alone and wonder how you're making out  
__And as for me, I wish that I was anywhere  
__With anyone, making out_

_Your hair, it's everywhere  
__Screaming infidelities are taking its wear  
__- _Dashboard Confessional, _Screaming Infidelities_

The Wrong Shade of Red; Part One

I never much cared for redheads until she came into my life. And then when she left again - or I left - or we both left each other - I've never been able to date another. Though, my last girlfriend was a redhead, too. She left me just last week. She told me I wasn't giving her enough love, and she slammed the apartment door in my face. The truth is, I was giving her all that I had, or at least trying to. Everything else in me belonged to a redhead I haven't seen in three years.

Well, that's a lie. I _have _seen her. The Weasley's still invite Harry and I to the Burrow for holidays and random cups of tea. My parents haven't spoken to me since my sixth year at Hogwarts - when news of my "affliction" came to their attention - and it's lonely when it's just Harry and me in the house. Oh, and Draco, now. He moved in last week, two days after Hannah broke it off. We only dated for a month, anyway; I knew it wasn't going to work from the very beginning.

I'm not sure where this is all going, by the way. I'm not sure what's going on in my head, or why I'm feeling the way that I do. My brain keeps on jumping around. I haven't been able to focus for weeks. I guess I could start at the beginning, but that's going too far back. I'll just go back to last week. I've certainly talked about it enough. We'll see what happens from there.

**One.**  
Another unsuccessful game of foreplay, another round of unfulfilling sex. I roll away from Hannah to the other side, leaning over the edge to grab my clothes. I can tell she's looking at me, those narrow hazel eyes loathing me. The sex has never been good, but it's never been this bad. It was my mistake, my slip of the tongue. She'd finally managed to hit the right spot and I'd said the wrong name. A name I haven't said in years.

"Who's Ginny?" she asks me, and I freeze as I'm buttoning my shirt. I don't answer. I can't answer. Not right now, not when my heart is still squeezing painfully in my chest.

Hannah moves closer to me. Her body's too skinny, too emaciated. Her hips dig into mine when she's on top of me. It's not warm enough, either. It's not filled with the fire I've always associated with redheads.

"Hermione," she coaxes, "tell me."

But I can't. I don't even feel that I owe it to her. If I loved her, maybe I could curl back into her embrace and let slip out what I haven't told anyone but Harry. But I don't, even though I say I do. Another deposit to the guilt bank. Another reason why I make myself sick.

"I have to go," I say instead. I finish dressing, pulling up my loose jeans - they used to be Harry's - and slipping into my shoes and I'm striding away from her. She snorts from the bed, in disgust, in anger, but I don't stop this time.

"You're always leaving when something uncomfortable is brought up," she hisses. "I don't know why I'm even with you."

But I don't stop. Her words don't even hurt me. What's really hurting is the reopening of a wound, and I'm crying. I need to get out of her apartment. I can't find my keys - there, there they are, on the counter where I left them. Where our half-full glasses of champagne rest. I gulp the rest of mine down, the burning making me gag, and I Apparate to the safety of the couch in my apartment.

There's moaning coming from Harry's room; I swear under my breath. I forgot; he wanted me out tonight. A hot date. I remember. He was asking my opinion all afternoon of what to wear. From the sounds coming from the bedroom, I can tell that his tight black jeans and loose indigo button-up shirt did the trick.

I watch Muggle T.V. on low volume and let the pictures make me forget Hannah, her too-skinny body, and the red hair that doesn't belong to her at all. It wasn't the right shade, either. It was too simple, _too_ red. Not enough auburn. Not enough gold. It was as if the painter had poured all of his love into _her_ hair, and not enough into Hannah's.

The other redhead starts creeping into my brain again, but I've become good and shutting it off. Maybe the horrors of the war did that to me. Maybe the only good thing that came out of that, besides the final victory. Everything else was death and pain.

I doze; I wake up to sounds in the kitchen. I twist my neck around and peek over the back of the couch to see a messier-than-usual head of black hair rummaging for food, humming to himself. He looks up and we lock eyes; I cock an eyebrow, and he blushes.

"The bed's getting cold," comes a strangely familiar drawling whine. Harry's blush deepens. I look over to the bedroom just in time to see none other than Draco Malfoy emerge from the dark doorway, stark naked and - quite aroused.

"Hermione," Harry says slowly as I try to keep a straight face, "you remember Draco."

I can't help it; I start laughing. I've been holding in too much emotion for too long, and it just bursts out of me in that hysterical laughter until tears are pouring out of my eyes. I'm not one to do that. Harry's just staring at me, that blush taking over his face like a rash, and Draco just stands there nonchalantly, like this is the most normal thing in the world.

"Looks like you grew up," I say finally to Draco, who grins.

"Looks like you did, too," he replies, a playful challenge. "Glad you finally tamed your hair."

"Glad you finally stopped being an asshole," I shoot back, and we smile at each other. I glance over at Harry, grinning. "I'll let you children get back to business, then," I tell him. Draco walks over and wraps an arm around Harry's waist, starts steering the utterly embarrassed green-eyed boy back to the bedroom. The snake that turned into a dragon winks at me before shutting the door.

**Two.**  
"'Mione, we need to talk." That's all she says into the phone of the apartment building's lobby. I roll my eyes. She's pretending that this is some dramatic scene when we both knew it was coming. Or maybe I'm just fooling myself into thinking it never was going to work just because I didn't want it to.

But I don't say that; I agree and buzz her up, telling the boys in Harry's bedroom to keep quiet or I'll ground them. Giggling ensues, and then I hear the mumble of a Silencing Spell and a slight wave of magic wash over me - like cold silk. The next sound I hear is Hannah's impatient knock at the door.

"Good morning, Hannah," I greet her politely when I let her inside. "Would you like some coffee?" I have a pot waiting to be consumed. I've already had two cups; I'm addicted.

She shakes her head and we sit down - me on the couch, last night's haven and bed, much to my neck's dismay - and her on the black leather chair Harry insisted on getting last year as a "Christmas present to our apartment." She looks nice. It took effort to even comb my hair, much less take a shower, and I'm still in what I was wearing yesterday. If that doesn't say anything about how I feel about our relationship, I don't know what does.

But she expects words anyway, and she's straight to the jugular. "Yesterday was awkward," Hannah says, "but I'd like to give you a chance to explain what happened. I know things haven't been going well between us, but I… I want to work on that. I want to learn who you are, Hermione. You've never let me." She's twisting her finger in that wrong-shade-of-red hair of hers. Her condescending manner and that fucking hair is making me feel uncomfortable, but I don't say anything. She's waiting for me to. We stare each other down like two lionesses after the same kill. Then she asks, "Who's Ginny?"

I don't notice that I stopped breathing until I choke on my held breath. A flood of memories breaks down the block in my head, the one I bury secrets behind. I'm looking straight at Hannah, but all I can see is her fiery red hair catching the sunlight, the crinkle of her eyes when she smiles. It's not Hannah - it's Ginny. But then I blink, god damn eyes, and it's just Hannah again.

"Hermione, what's wrong?" Hannah looks genuinely distressed. Probably because I'm crying. I can feel it, the bounds of my sanity breaking loose, and this woman that I don't love wondering if I'm okay. I can't take it. I lash out.

"Hannah, what ever made you think that you deserve to know anything about me?" I ask her scathingly, and she sits back, a sour expression on her face. "Things aren't working out, and they weren't working out from the beginning, so why don't you just give up? We're from too different worlds -" I can't help but take a moment to acknowledge the irony, though she's lost on it - "and there's no way they can come together. You're not the person I'm looking for, and I'm not the person you're looking for, so let's just leave it at that and get on with it."

She stands and walks to the door. I follow her, so I can lock the door behind her - nervous habit of mine, but Harry doesn't mind. He does the same thing. She's not speaking, but I can feel the iciness encrusting her.

The door opens and she turns to face me, burning rage behind her eyes. I stare back, unafraid. After all, I've seen worse things in my life.

"You're a fucking bitch, Hermione Granger," she spits at me. "I don't know why I ever bothered my time with you."

And then she slams the door in my face.

I thrust the lock home and leap onto the couch, tears of rage and pain and hate and bitterness burning my cheeks. I'm sobbing noisily, like a child, and I can't stop. I'm crying because I haven't been able to love anyone since that first redhead named Ginny and I'm crying because it's not Hannah's fault her hair isn't the right shade of red or that she's not Ginny or that I'm too fucked up to be in a relationship at all. I'm crying because this is the fifth time this year that I've done this to myself, and the results are always the same.

I thought I would be alone to wallow in my misery, but I hear a door open and two sets of footsteps treading across the carpeting, and I'm being held on both sides by two sets of arms. I didn't realize I needed it until it came. I guess that's the way most things happen.

"I need to stop doing this to myself," I think aloud. Their arms just wrap around me tighter.

**Three.**  
My hands are shaking as I pick up the broken glass. I'm careful not to slice open my hands on any of the edges. I'm naked, in my bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror. My face is unreadable, completely stoic. Nothing there. Emptiness. Empty green eyes. Too dark, maybe, around the edges. I don't sleep well and haven't for years.

I close my eyes and turn my head away, towards my leg propped up on the toilet seat. The scars of a thousand wounds are littered like an ashen battlefield across my skin. Some self-inflicted, some not. Some years old, others only months, weeks. I stopped hurting myself just before the first time Hannah and I had sex. She was too emotionally stable to understand that kind of pain.

"So this is now," I say to myself, and pull my skin taut with my free hand. There's the hanging-by-a-thread rush of adrenaline - the first signs of life in my veins. The first cut is always the hardest, because it's like the first time all over again. I'm not sure how deep to go, I'm not sure how far to take it. I still feel it, after all those years.

Finally, I eye a place that I've mangled before. The scars are fading, but still pink. I run a finger across one of them, before unceremoniously dragging the sharp end of my favorite tool across my skin.

There's nothing, at first. Just broken skin.

There - a thin line of red. Like a painter brushing delicately across white canvas. It's not quite the right shade, though; it's too bright, too glimmering. But it doesn't stop - it grows, it beads, it swells. Pain courses through my leg and I shudder. I look back up at the mirror, but there's still that empty girl staring back at me. I turn away just as swiftly and cut myself again, and again, and again, feeling the pain and just the flicker of something pounding into my head. I go blind. Blood roars in my ears. Was that someone calling me?

"Hermione!" Harry shouts through the door, and in my surprise, I drop the glass. It breaks on the floor, and I swear. "You okay?"

"Yeah," I reply, bending over shakily to pick up the glass and toss it in the garbage. "Just about to take a shower."

"When you come out, I have to talk to you," he tells me, then leaves. I don't dwell on it.

I look at my reflection a third time and sigh with relief. Hermione Granger, twenty years old, stares back at me with the pain of four years reflecting in those deep chocolate eyes. I smile. She smiles, too, and a tear slips down her cheek.

There are twenty cuts on my upper thigh, making up a box shape. They're bleeding into each other, making them all burn. I like it. I revel in it. If I didn't, I wouldn't do it.

I shower, hot water washing away the blood. I shampoo my hair, scrub my body raw, and come out a dripping wet and brand new woman. I towel off, patch up my cuts with large bandages in the drawer, wrap my dampened towel around my body, and return to the world anew.

It's rather poetic how Harry is sitting at the kitchen table, calmly and dressed for the day, drinking some tea out of a mug Ginny made for him. The memory of that moment at Christmas stings. She'd smiled at Harry, handed him the present - and gave me this fleeting, unreadable look. I shake myself out of it and sigh, plopping down in the chair across from my raven-haired roommate and try to focus on the poetry within his hands against the burgundy-glazed mug.

"What did you want to talk about?" I ask.

He raises his eyebrows at my lack of attire, but speaks anyway. "Well, it's about… I mean…" He takes a deep breath. I can see a blush rising on his cheeks - something's got my poor little Harry all wrapped up in knots. I almost giggle. "Draco and I have actually been seeing each other for a few months now," he blurts finally. It's my turn to raise my eyebrows. "But I didn't tell you because I was afraid of your reaction. I was going to tell you, I swear," he adds before I can protest at the injustice, "because, well…" He grins and his eyes light up. He's acting like a little schoolgirl; I find it endearing. "I love him, 'Mione. He loves me. And we've been talking, and… I was wondering if it would be all right if he moved in."

My brain goes into shock, so I just say the first thing that pops into my head - a bad habit. "Draco's a member of one of the wealthiest families in the Wizarding world and _he's_ moving in with _us_?" I laugh at Harry's confused look. "Sorry - I didn't mean that, honest." I look around our apartment. It's made up of a moderately small living room, equipped with a relatively new television set sitting on a neat little stand, movies of all sorts shoved into the small compartment at the bottom; a comfy and well-worn blue sofa; a black leather chair (again, Harry's idea); a coffee table, covered in magazines, books, and random candles; and a bookshelf against the wall, filled with more books and movies. There's no separation between the living room and the kitchen, besides the counter, and it's hard enough to have two people bumbling around in here at once - what would three be like? Our table's big enough to seat four, and we keep it clean. Down the hallway, my bedroom, with an adjoining bathroom - off to the right, Harry's bedroom, with his bathroom across the hall. It's quaint. It's tiny. It's home. Could it be someone else's home, too?

Draco Malfoy… He'd been a double-teammate for the war, but he was just keeping up appearances to the thankfully dead Voldemort while he was smuggling us vital information. I'm sure he and Harry had a tryst or two back then, but I'm sure neither would admit to that now. During the war, I didn't come into contact with the dragon; I just knew he was there, perhaps behind a corner, following me to make sure I was going to survive. Or, at least, the messengers who sent me commands. I was commander of a team of witches and wizards that infiltrated areas of special interest to the Death Eaters and found out why. We also researched ancient weapons and spells that could be used against them. I was the one who found out where the final battle would be fought, and I was present to see The End. I watched Voldemort die.

I pull myself out of the wartime before it can consume me, and think back to the matter at hand. Could I live with that bastardly snake, the boy who had tormented me during our years at school? He seems like he's better. Harry trusts him, and Harry had to deal with a lot more while we were in school. It would certainly make life interesting, having the conniving blonde boy around.

I shrug, finally, I'm sure much to Harry's relief, and say, "I think I'd be okay with that. I'm just glad you found someone to make you happy."

Harry beams and practically leaps over the table to give me a hug. He's practically on top of me; my towel slides up my legs and exposes the wounds on my left thigh. His body is pressing into them; I wince, and he pulls away, giving me a concerned look.

"Hermione, are you okay?" he asks, and then he notices the bandages and the hint of blood seeping through. I don't bother trying to cover them up. He knows me a lot better than that. "You haven't done that for a while," he comments, after a few moments of complete silence. "So that's what you were doing in the bathroom."

"You know what they say about old habits…" I trail off weakly, give him the ghost of a smile.

He reaches over and hugs me again, careful now of my thigh. "It doesn't have to be like that, you know," he whispers into my ear.

I shake my head a little. I'm holding onto him more tightly than I should, but I don't think he minds. "I don't know how else it's supposed to be."

He sighs into my hair. His disappointment makes me feel even worse about who I am, what I'm doing with myself. I'm one of the most respected witches in England. I teach Transfiguration part-time at Hogwarts and have a nice job with the Ministry, working as a liaison and representative to other magical administrations in Europe, as well as the magical creatures that inhabit them. I barter, I compromise, I debate, I teach, I smile so sickeningly business-like and easily that I can feel the sugary fakeness oozing over my skin, a thick layering of confectionary armor. No one but Harry knows about the cutting. No one but Harry knows about the nightmares, the anguish, the unyielding pain. My broken heart peeked out at him and spoke in muttered sentences and half-sobs about a tragic love story, and he's the only one who knows.

Well. The only one who… wasn't involved, at least.

I look fleetingly at Harry's coffee mug and can't help but imagine her hands cradling the clay (raku was her favorite to work with), molding the uncertain form into this beautiful, perfect shape - carefully, coaxing it like a lovers' first time making love. I can't help but remember that that's the way she used to touch me, and that's exactly how she would make me feel: beautiful, perfect, yielding willingly to the master potter's hands.

"I wish it hadn't…" I say softly, letting my sentence drag undecidedly through silence, my lips still poised to finish. I twist my mouth into a frown and shake my head, and before Harry can say anything in askance to my sudden secretiveness, I stand. "I'm going to go get dressed. Why don't you owl Draco and tell him the good news?" I don't wait for his reply, but as I slowly shut my bedroom door, I can hear the telltale sounds of a quill scratching against paper.


	2. part two

Part two for your reading pleasure. Sorry about the delay. I work, I go to school, I sleep and eat on an irregular basis.. I do like the feedback I've received, so please, give me more (basically, a cry for attention). Hope you all like it.

WARNINGS: drug references, public sex, funny-clored hair, emo lyrics

_But now we speak with ruined tongues  
And the words we say aren't meant for anyone  
Just a mumbled sentence to a passing acquaintance  
Where there was once you_

_You said you hate my suffering  
__And you understood  
__And you'd take care of me  
__You'd always be there  
__Well where are you now?  
_- Bright Eyes, _Haligh, Haligh, A Lie, Haligh_

The Wrong Shade of Red; Part Two

**Four.  
**I come home from work two days after the Draco moving in conversation to find a living room of boxes and two male lovers on the couch pawing and cooing at each other waiting for me. I toss my bag at the kitchen table, the sound of rustling papers enough to wake the dragon and the phoenix from their state of lovers' oblivion. The phoenix blushes a flattering pink; the dragon flashes me a toothy grin, and untangles himself from the phoenix's wings.

"Good day at work, Hermione?" Draco asks smoothly, nonchalantly straightening his black shirt. Behind him, I can tell Harry is struggling to readjust his jeans.

I roll my eyes and shrug, then retreat to the comfort of my room, asking behind my shoulder, "Who's cooking tonight?"

"You are," Harry reminds me as I shut the door.

I change out of Ministry robes into a blood-red tank top and black flared jeans. I've preferred dark clothing since the beginning of the war, and though times are much different now, I can't shake the feeling of security that the dark colors bring. Harry keeps badgering me to get brighter clothes like I wore during our summers at school, when we would visit the Weasley family, but I can't bring myself to. It would be an insult to the memory of the youthful Hermione to wear her clothes on this broken woman's body. The only resemblance we hold now is the same cinnamon-tinted brown hair.

Before I return to the living room, my eyes catch on a picture trying to get my attention on my dresser. A seventeen-year-old Hermione Granger is waving frantically for me to regard the scene she's in, a distressed look upon her face. Meanwhile, a sixteen-year-old Ginny Weasley, eyes sparkling with mischief and happiness, is clinging to that girl's waist, trying to plait kisses upon her cheek. As I keep looking, Hermione takes on a calmer demeanor, and finally settles back into Ginny's arms. My eyes sting painfully. I look away and go back to the living room.

The boys watch television on the couch while I cook dinner. I can hear their jests and small quarrels over the laugh tracks and music on the screen. Maybe this is what school should've been like: Draco and Harry, friends instead of enemies, amiable competitors instead of harsh rivals. I can't help but believe, desperately, that things would have turned out differently for both of them. I can't help but believe that they would have saved each other.

"Ready," I call out to them, dishes in hand. We pile on the feast, designed for the ghosts of Hogwarts appetites at the very least possessing Harry, and we carry our shares to the uncluttered kitchen table. A new motley Golden Trio, with its new Golden Couple. Tarnished, maybe, but still visible underneath the rust of sacrifice.

We eat; we talk. A better description would be I eat a little, they talk around me. Their voices are thick with new love, tenderness; it's a sound I haven't heard in a while. Harry's last boyfriend was a lot like Hannah: very little understanding of whom Harry is and no chance of ever knowing. They lasted longer than Hannah and I did. A year, for them, yet no talk of ever moving in. Harry says a few months, and already we have the blonde's possessions in our living room. The thought makes me feel anxious for him, for myself. If Harry succeeds, if Harry wins this as a final prize, does that mean the same for me?

Ridiculous. I banish the thought immediately and talk with them again, about school, about work, about life. We don't mention Hannah, the war, or the fact that we're all broken and battered and missing pieces. The deepest we go is when Draco asks me if I'm tired.

"It looks like ghosts kept you up all night," he says, setting his fork down on the plate. "Bad dreams?"

I scoff, but don't answer. My mind races for some kind of response, something to both evade the topic and get onto a new one, but I can't. Inside, I've wanted to talk about my nightmares, my ghosts, with someone other than Harry, for years. Ever since she left, and took her listening ear with her. I remember: one of our fights, she screamed that she hated how sad I was. And then she cried about how she couldn't help me, she just couldn't help me…

"Yeah, I suppose," I reply. Easy. Incomplete.

**Five.**  
Harry approaches me while I'm washing the dishes, the old-fashioned Muggle way. His body is at awkward angles; his hair is hanging in his eyes. I think that I need to give him a hair cut again, and then I tune into the almost guilty way he's looking at me. I prepare for the worst.

"Um, I just wanted to tell you that…" He hesitates, looks off to the side. I rinse off soapsuds from another dish. "Well, Ginny invited us to her flat for the evening… She's interested in seeing Draco and I together. I don't think she really believes it." Harry laughs nervously, as I fight to keep myself in check. I scrub furiously at burnt crepe at the bottom of the pan. Washing dishes without magic was the second most thing that Wizards found fascinating about Muggles. The first was driving a car.

"I hope you have fun," I tell him lightly, not quite trusting my voice.

He looks uncomfortable. I can tell he feels guilty, and it's this guilt that makes me his next offer. "Why don't you come with us?" he half-pleads. "It's been three years, Hermione."

I stiffen. "It would be rude, Harry. I wasn't invited." The last of the dishes is rinsed off. I use my wand to dry them and send them to their proper cupboards.

He sighs and I smile wanly. "Get some sleep, then, 'Mione. You really do look tired." His voice is stiff concern, distant care. He leaves the kitchen and I wipe my wet hands on a dishtowel, wondering what's really holding me back.

**Six.**  
"Isn't this amazing?" she said, taking Hermione's hand and pressing it to the chest. Through skin, muscle, and cloth, the brunette could feel the quickening heartbeat.

"Yes," Hermione whispered, a bright smile tugging at her lips. The other girl grinned broadly and pulled them both down onto the grass. It was soft and still slightly damp from morning dew, but it was soft and comfortable. Hermione felt like she could curl up there and fall asleep content.

The other girl had something else in mind, however. Hermione felt a hand sneak under her shirt and start tracing circles on her skin, before snaking up to unclasp her bra. Hermione gasped, the sound stifled by a mouth on hers, lips and tongue coaxing her into a new state of elated oblivion.

"They'll see," the brunette protested half-heartedly, glancing towards the house to make a point. The other girl grinned again and transfigured the grass around their bodies into tall hedges, leaving them a circular, natural haven.

Hermione couldn't help but smirk. "You practiced that just for today, didn't you?"

"But of course," the other girl replied, red hair glistening tantalizingly in the mid-afternoon sun. She left no room for answer, but instead, continued her earlier ministrations until Hermione's body was quaking, as she stifled a moan in the redhead's neck…

I wake up from my dream, one hand shoved unceremoniously in my pants. I blush at the wetness soaking my panties and quickly pull away, looking around to make sure no one else is home. I'd hate for Draco to have something to mock me with so early on in this new relationship. Thankfully, the house is empty. I relax into the leather chair and reclaim the remote that had fallen from the armrest - probably once I started touching myself, I think, and blush again. No one saw me, but the very act makes me embarrassed - though many know I've done much, much naughtier things in my time…

Sexuality… Without a partner, it feels so useless. I could push myself over the edge, but where would be the gratification? I can't snuggle with myself. I can't breathe in my own scent and curl up naked in my own arms. I can't be responsible for my own emptiness. I hate forcing myself into that shell. I'd rather be sexually frustrated, waiting for a void to be filled, then constantly fill that void with white space. Unsatisfying and without gratification. A waste of energy.

**Seven.**  
The club's music is so loud I can't think. Electric lights pulse with a heavy bass, dyeing everything shades of neon. I see the lace of wings in the crowd of dancers, rave kids and seasoned club-hoppers, brightly-colored hair to rival Tonks', and I feel so out of place I can barely stand to be here.

But their arms won't let me go. I feel them tug, first Draco, then Harry, towards the bar, to begin what they've referred to as my "night of rediscovery."

"Rediscovery of what?" I asked when they presented me with my new outfit, a black mini-skirt and green-and-blue slinky top, to "complement my green eyes," Draco told me.

"Your sex life," Harry told me straight faced. I glowered, but grudgingly pulled the clothing on. In front of them, just to mock them with my female form. Neither of them really seemed to notice.

"These heels are too high," I shout my complaint into Harry's ear, but he just grins roguishly and hands me my drink, salt already sprinkled at the sides of his mouth. The Boy Who Triumphed, getting shit-faced in some club with The Book Goddess and the Two-Sided Dragon. We have so many names; it's hard to keep us straight with all these electric lights. It's hard to find them, groping for their hands as they're constantly moving, pulling me along, forcing alcohol down my throat.

I feel dehydrated but find myself on the dance floor anyway. The hot, moving bodies press into me and make me feel weak, vulnerable. I could go limp here and not have to support myself, but who, in this sea of drug addicts, would catch me?

Someone notices my reluctance to be assimilated. She comes closer to me, locks eyes. They are bright blue and electric, too bright to be considered _hers_. And she is thankfully blonde, hair pulled into a plethora of blue-streaked braids. I silently agree to dance with her, and she pulls me into her, sweat dripping between us, creating a slick feeling as her skin presses into mine. I can feel the familiar throbbing between my legs and know that this is what the boys meant. I needed to rediscover my body.

She picks up on it, too, I know she does. Her eyes are twinkling and she's moving her hands over my overheated skin, fingertips feather light with just the hint of long nails leaving reddened trail marks. I am unashamed; I moan at the intimate touch, though she may not mean it sexually. I think the sound has disappeared into a cloud of smoke in the midst of all this noise, but she heard me. I can tell by the grin on her face, and then the sudden closeness - closer than before - and then her mouth on mine.

Her mouth is warm and pressed hard against my own. I press myself closer to her body, trying to convey my need without words, _touch me, touch me_. I feel so helpless and so vulnerable, and while there are warning bells in my head so against this exchange, my body is craving it like heroin, like ambrosia. I need to be reborn; this old skin needs to melt off my bones to be replaced with new.

My breath hitches when her fingernails come into contact with my inner thigh. We're still kissing as her hand trails upwards, under my mini, slipping fluidly under my panties. She giggles against my lips, amused at my very obvious arousal, then flickers her eyes at me mischievously.

My skin tingles; my blood boils and scalds my veins. Her fingers rub against me in rhythm with the trance beats, hard then soft, faster then slower depending on her disposition, depending on the speed and shallowness of my breath. I feel so shameless, standing here with my arms wrapped around her shoulders to keep myself standing, in the middle of this dance floor with hundreds of other bodies basically doing the same as me. And yet I deserve this; I can justify this to myself. My body deserves to be loved. My body deserves to be cradled, supported. I need to be rescued. _Touch me, touch me_, and she is, sending lightning bolts across my skin and around my brain, bouncing them around inside to jump start the beating of my heart, to make my abdomen convulse and my legs feel like they're going to give out completely.

And yet isn't there something wrong with this? Sexual favors from a beautiful stranger, some sex kitten with glitter dusting her body, bare midriff taut and pale, the blue outline of a fairy just south of her bellybutton, hovering above the top of her neon blue leather pants, hips jaunt. She's the embodiment of an absinthe or ecstasy based wet dream, wild sex in the backroom with a glow stick shoved deep inside, pulsing a new rhythm to make some boy wake up with an erection and ten minutes until class time. When did I sign up for this?

I'm too overwhelmed. My last amazing orgasm was three years ago, and while this was nowhere near "amazing", it was much better than mediocre, and around the lines of "good", but my mind's moving too fast, my breath isn't regulating, I'm getting a headache from the music and her thick perfume, I'm covered in sweat and her glitter, and I feel like I was used for my hurt doe eyes that attracted Hannah and other girls to me in the first place.

"T-thanks," I stutter, darting from her embrace like a deer taking that first step on the highway to start sprinting - and I am, heading back for the bar, the imprint of confused and disappointed neon blue eyes in my brain.

"I think we should go," I scream at Harry when I get to him and Draco. One of them (their limbs are so entangled with each other that I can't tell whose arm is whose) hands me a bottle of water, and I suck down the entirety of it in a few seconds. It's cold and makes my throat feel raw, but my head loses some if its fluffy qualities.

Harry frowns. "I figured the club scene wasn't your cup of tea, but I thought it would get you out of the house." He doesn't seem too crushed. I love him for that. "I guess we can go home."

I smile gratefully and we link arms, the two men on either side of me. I breathe in a sigh of relief at the sight of the door, then gasp when our way is barred by the blue fairy's glittering form.

She grins sheepishly, flips some of her braids. "You left so suddenly I didn't get a chance to get your name," she half-purrs. Her voice is high soprano, but mature.

I swallow. "Hermione," I reply. "My friends and I have to go."

"Hermione." She licks her lips and gives my body an once-over. Her gaze, and the reminder of her hands, makes me shiver slightly. Harry shoots me a look. "I'm Lucy." She leans in closer to my ear, her breath hot and uncomfortable. "I had fun dancing with you tonight. Maybe we can do it again sometime."

"I don't think so," I tell her, shifting seamlessly into Crucio mode. I'm ashamed. I'm dehydrated. I'm tired. I don't want to stand here being undressed by a pair of blue eyes.

She pouts and pulls away. "Fine." Rejection creates a whiny quality to her face. "Have fun playing with your _boys_."

"We're gay," Draco interjects, and as we leave the building, cold magic washes over us, and we're back at the apartment.

I unchain my arms and start stalking to the shower. I need to clean myself and feel more like me again, instead of like some dirty businessman just come back from a "club" in Thailand.

"Hermione, do you want to talk about it?" Harry asks after me.

"I'm going to take a shower," I yell into the bathroom, then slam the door and lock it. I run the shower scalding hot and wash away all the glitter, all the traces of my encounter.

Even after all these years, it still feels like I'm betraying her.


	3. part three

Jezebel Malice told me to update this. So I am. Sorry if it causes any of you to attack whatever's closest to you in frustration. I know I'm a horrible person.

WARNINGS: macking, Hagrid speak, overanalytical Hermione, and scremo lyrics.

_  
The storm is letting up,  
__But it won't die.  
__If you weren't wrong, was I?  
__Your picture still remains,  
__But I wonder are you still the same?  
_- Finch, _Without You Here_

The Wrong Shade of Red; Part Three

**Eight.  
**"Hey," she said, a weird grin on her face. "You're really pretty."

I disappeared beneath the blankets, hiding my face – teasing. She laughed and wiggled into my haven, pressing her nose against mine.

"We should get married someday," she whispered. Her eyes were bright with honesty.

I smiled and nodded. "That would be nice." We kissed and our bodies melted together.

"So meaningless," I hiss to myself, opening my eyes before the memory can become too involved. "It's been three years, Hermione. Why do you continue to torture yourself?"

Our relationship had been perfect. We understood each other. We were there for each other. We had similar tastes in music, movies, decorating. Our bodies fit perfectly together. Every touch was always, always electricity. We rarely fought.

I can hear Harry telling Draco about it in the living room. They had started by talking about last night, thinking I was still asleep, thinking I couldn't hear them.

"Who is Hermione still so hung up over?" Draco had asked. "It can't be that bitch Hannah."

"Of course not," Harry had replied, exasperated. "Who has it always ever been? Ginny. It's always been Ginny."

He gave the same explanation as I did. And Draco asked the same question I always have.

"So what happened?"

Harry sighs here. I do the same, and curl up on my side, hugging the blankets to me.

"Hermione said that they started fighting a lot. Ginny started leaving, for clubs or bars, she never knew, and then would call her later and say she fooled around with some other girl, but she'd be home to talk about it within the hour. They'd make up, and things would be okay for a few days, maybe even a week, but it would all start over again…"

I can still hear the slamming doors.

"Finally, it escalated to the point where neither of them could take it anymore. Ginny brought home a girl one night and Hermione left, ended up running into Fleur Delacour – you remember her? She took Hermione back to her apartment, got her drunk, to 'drown away her sorrows', and then came onto her. You know how Hermione gets when she's drunk – she can be talked into doing anything."

"So they fucked, is what you're saying," Draco interjects flatly.

If you could call it that.

"Mm... When Hermione realized what had happened, she left and caught a cab home. Ginny was home, but the girl had left… Ginny said that they hadn't slept together, that she couldn't, because she loved Hermione too much to do something like that to her. Of course, Hermione had to admit that she had slept with someone else…"

"Let me guess. Ginny didn't take the news that well."

"Of course not. The Weasley Rage instinctively took over. They fought, said nasty things to each other, Hermione blamed Ginny for what had happened, because she wouldn't have done it if she hadn't thought that Ginny was cheating on her in the first place… So Ginny left.

"I got a phone call from Hermione later that day. She was absolutely hysterical, asking if she could move in with me. She didn't tell me exactly what had happened until months after the fact. It just had hurt her so bad."

"Did you ever hear how it happened from Ginny?" Draco asks. I freeze. I don't want to hear this part. But I do. I want to know what I did wrong.

"Yeah." I grip the sheets tightly in anticipation for the sting. "She said she had started going out because Hermione had started demanding too much from her."

"I suppose that's lesbian for she stopped getting action as often and was starting to nag about it."

Harry snorts. "I heard it was a part of that. They both were working too much, and not being able to spend as much time together. They were both exhausted at the end of the day, and Ginny couldn't keep up with it all. But Hermione still wanted everything to be the same as it was when they _did_ have the time and energy for each other. And Ginny couldn't deal with it."

Demanding too much? I don't hear the rest of what Harry says, or Draco's response. My brain sticks on this idea that I was demanding too much, pushing too hard; I don't understand. How could just asking her to come home a little earlier every once in a while, or asking her to come out to dinner with me, or just staying at home with me to snuggle, make love, talk together, be demanding _too much_?

And how could just not coming home be the right answer?

I try to muster up some anger, some justifiable emotion for these unanswerable thoughts, but I can't. Somehow, I can't blame her. Ginny can't deal well with the pressure of too many commitments. Coming home was the easiest commitment she could get out of; after all, if she didn't go to work, she would be fired. If she didn't do all that she was asked of for her job, well, she would be fired because of that, too. Ginny's the best Auror the Ministry has had working for them since Moody was in his prime. Of course they would demand a lot from her.

Was I too much on top of that?

I can't, I can't think about this right now. I know it's nothing but circles, a cycle of thoughts that I could get caught up in for the next year. And I have a class to teach in two hours.

I banish Ginny Weasley from my mind and head for the shower.

****

Nine.  
The train ride to the castle is uneventful. I change into my Hogwarts staff robes halfway through the trip, just as we used to do during our school years, and then enchant them to look like nothing more than a long overcoat to a Muggle's eyes. I imagine a woman with red hair out of the corner of my eye, but it's just nostalgia. I try to push it to the back of my mind, and start reviewing in my head what Minerva asked me to cover in class today. The poor woman is too burdened by her responsibilities. After Dumbledore's death and the reopening of the school the following year, she never found another Transfiguration professor – or, at least, no one else ever applied for the position. Hogwarts, after all, though still renowned, was now thought to be haunted by old memories. In the opinion of some, old memories best left buried. And yet every year, the students keep coming…

The train comes to a stop and I exit onto a platform of a small station outside of the town of Meade's Hollow. I smile to myself and swing my bag as I walk through the wall between platforms two and three; platform three-and-three-quarters is there waiting for me, at the station of Hogsmeade.

"'Ermione, o'er here," calls a booming voice outside the station, and my smile widens. Hagrid still lives at Hogwarts, and is always there to take me to the castle when I have classes to teach. His hair is greying a little in spots, but his eyes are still as youthful and happy as they were during my first year. We hug, his strong arms making my ribs feel like they're going to crack, before he sets me down like a rag doll next to him in the open carriage, putting my bag behind us.

"How are classes going, Hagrid?" I ask pleasantly, enjoying the familiar scents of Hogsmeade, the familiar surroundings. Fred and George's second shop sits at the corner of town next to Zonko's, though I know the twin redheads aren't there. They stay mostly at their shop at Diagon Alley, letting Lee Jordan handle the affairs at the Hogsmeade location.

"Oh, I've 'ad t' take some time off from m'classes, unfortunately," he replies. "Fang's sick, y'see, so's I've b'n takin' care o' 'im."

I frown. "Have your classes been cancelled, then?" Despite my reservations, to this day, of Hagrid's teaching ability and the topics of his lessons, it's still a big deal to me that Hagrid is not teaching. All the hard work Ron, Harry, and I put into making sure Hagrid remained in his well-deserved (and I use that term loosely) position, just to find that his classes were cancelled, or even worse, taken over by someone with a lacking sense of "adventurous teaching"…

But Hagrid laughs reassuringly. "O'course not! No Grubbly-Plank's goin' t' be teachin' m'classes." He says this last bit a bit gruffly; it's obvious that the years haven't yet healed the wounds left open by Rita Skeeter's article my fourth year. Considering how damaging it was to his career that year, I don't blame him. "No, I han'picked m'replacement, thank ye very much, on Headmistress McGonagall's orders."

I want to ask who. I don't even know why it's so important to know. The red-haired woman on the train – it couldn't be –

"Well, we're here." And we are. I shake my head to clear it and get an eyeful of castle. Even now, this castle seems huge. "I best be gettin' back to Fang. Ye just come back t' m'cabin when y're done, all right, 'Ermione?"

I put on my best smile and nod. Hagrid pats my shoulder (it feels like a full-grown cow nudging me) and I hop out of the carriage, reaching for my bag once my feet hit solid ground. I wave goodbye and try not to think about the coincidences swirling in my head.

****

Ten.  
I yawn loudly after my second class of the day gets out and watch fondly on as the stragglers rush to get their books back in order. This last bunch was fourth years – preparing for O.W.L.s, already talk of the Yule Ball, though it's still two months away; they remind me of what my fourth year was like. I even see the new Golden Trio, though lacking its honest-and-true Wizarding celebrity; this new generation of Harry, Ron, and Hermione is just the same. Miss Smith always raises her hand, is the first to get her transfiguration correct, and always helps the class afterwards.

It's a little annoying, really.

There's a cat in the doorway, waiting for the last student to exit before sauntering in. I smile in its direction as I gather my materials. It mews once, then changes into the form of an elderly witch in emerald green robes.

"How was it today?" Minerva asks, not anxiously, not worriedly – just curiously.

"Just fine," I reply. "Robert's still having trouble doing animal to object transfigurations, but I had Madeline help him out today. She's coming along nicely."

She smirks. "Of course she is; she's just like you." We both laugh. "I don't think I could ever stress enough how grateful I am that you've agreed to teach in my absences this year."

"It's an honor, really," I reply honestly. "I love teaching."

She continues as if I hadn't spoken, though I know she heard me. "I have a proposition for you, actually." The sentence lingers in the air for a few moments, the thought waiting to be finished.

I buy in. "What's that?"

She smiles at me again, in that kind, elderly manner. Minerva, despite her somewhat severe features, is still probably one of the nicest women I've ever met, second only to Molly Weasley. "Hermione, I'm fully aware that you have another job with the Ministry, but we really need you here. I'm getting too old for all that I have to do; I can understand why Albus gave up teaching once he was elected into the position of Headmaster. It's an extremely demanding office, especially when following the footsteps of such a great man." She lapses into a brief silence – in remembrance, or simple effect, I can't be sure. "What I mean to say is, Hermione, I'm offering you a fulltime position as Transfiguration professor at this school. You are, of course, more than welcome to stay in your current living space, and Hagrid will continue to drive you back and forth to the station at Hogsmeade for your classes."

I'm in shock. My mouth is gaping open and I'm staring at her like she's insane. In return, she's looking back at me as if she knows I have no reason to refuse.

And I don't have any reason to refuse. Hogwarts is one of the few places that makes me feel at ease. It was my home for seven years; it was the place I longed for over the summer. The happiest and most life-changing years occurred at this school. And teaching is the most fun I've had in a long time. I always look forward to these lessons, just as I did when I was a student.

"I accept," comes out of my mouth before I can stop it, along with the accompanying grin.

"It's settled, then," she replies, a matching grin on her face. "You will become fulltime once the new year starts, as I'm sure you'll have plenty to work out with your job at the Ministry." We shake hands, then hug. She's mostly bones until the robes, but it's still very warm. "We'll discuss your contract and the fine details once it gets closer to that date." She pulls away and starts walking out of the classroom. "I'll see you Thursday morning."

"Have a good night, Minerva," I call to her, voice light and slightly faint.

****

Eleven.  
Hermione Granger, Transfiguration Professor. The title swishes comfortably through my head as I walk across the grounds towards Hagrid's hut; despite how early it is after classes, there's already Quidditch practice going on – Hufflepuff. I giggle menacingly to myself and can't help but think that they probably still need all the help they can get.

I feel so light, like all the pain and baggage I've been carrying for years has been taken from me, if only for a short while. I am fresh-faced and just stepping off the boat the first day of my first year; I am slightly care-worn, but excited to finally be graduating; the first time I ever performed a spell, the first time I talked to Harry and Ron without being ridiculed, the first time I punched Draco… A laugh bubbles in my throat. Life is wonderful.

"Hagrid!" I call as I reach the cabin, door slightly ajar. I push the door open wider to allow myself room to enter. "You won't believe…" My voice dies as soon as my eyes focus on the scene – automatically, damn my eyes, on that head of red, the perfect shade, that perfect body, dressed in a black t-shirt and dark jeans, teaching robes tossed casually off the back of her chair, sitting at Hagrid's table, a cup of tea sitting in front of her – my mind goes blank. Or rather, it becomes overflowed with memories and emotion, our first kiss, our last fight, her fingers touching me, all those perfect moments…

"'Ermione, I was just 'bout t' see if y'were done," Hagrid says uncomfortably from his chair.

I nod, once, suddenly shy. "Minerva offered me a fulltime position, starting after the new year," I say lightly.

"Congratulations." Her soft voice carries to my ears like a bittersweet melody. Her eyes flicker up to me. I wonder what she knows about me now. I wonder if she knows someone fucked me last night. I wonder if she knows about Hannah and the other girls who I tried so desperately to replace her with, and how they all failed. I wonder if she knows. I wonder if she even cares.

"Thank you." I struggle for breath. "You look well."

She looks better than well. Her hair is cut shorter, to curl just a little under her chin, and bangs fall gracefully in front of one eye. Her mouth looks used to laughter and those half-smirks she used to get me every time with. She still bites her fingernails. Her eyes are still gorgeous. They're so dark, midnight blue; I wonder if they were lighter before I walked in. I wonder if I make her sad.

God, Ginny, I'm sorry.

She shrugs a little. "You do, too." Her eyes linger on me, but only briefly. She's trying not to look too hard. Her eyes flick back to mine and then my leg. She's asking a silent question about my habits, but I try to become unreadable.

"So you're the substitute for Hagrid," I say, trying to keep us talking. "How did you get the Ministry to let you off work?"

"Actually, Hagrid just asked me if I would continue working as Care of Magical Creatures professor for the remainder of the year," she tells me. "He's already approved it through the Headmistress."

I nod a little, and look away. "Congratulations yourself, then."

"'Ermione, I should take ye t' yer train," Hagrid interjects anxiously.

"Why don't I get a lift with you two, then?" Her eyes never leave mine. They're burning into me, as if she's trying to read into my soul. "I'm riding on that train, anyway."

"You're doing this on purpose," I breathe. She only smiles a little in the reply.

We don't speak on the way there, but her body is constantly bumping into mine. The carriage is small – after all, it's only carrying two, instead of its usual twenty. I get the feeling she's doing this all on purpose; to taunt me, to tease me, to make me admit that I still want her, long for her, need her…

Ginny, I love you.

It would be easy, wouldn't it? But so would rejection. Silence is better. Pretending is harder, but much easier to keep digested.

We say our goodbyes to Hagrid and walk together through the wall to the Muggle platform. Silence is better, but…

"Why are you doing this?" I ask her, point blank.

"I just wanted to see you again," she says, a bit wearily. "I thought you would've come with when I invited Harry and Draco… Maybe I'll try harder next time."

We're on the train. Our compartments are on completely opposite sides of the train from each other. I start panicking internally: what if this is it? What is _this_, anyway?

"Well, now that you've seen me, what do you think?" I question boldly.

I become disoriented when she presses her body into me, against the door of my compartment, her breath warm against my lips. Her mouth is centimeters from mine, her eyes melt into one. Her closeness awakens the passion and need that only she has ever been able to invoke, and I'm shaking against her, afraid of what's going to happen, afraid that it might not at all.

Her only answer is to press her lips into mine, fierce and quick, tongue nudging my lips open, our breathing quick, her hands cupping my face, mine buried in her hair, that gorgeous hair, and she's making me crave more from her: our naked forms somewhere, _right here_, _right now_, pushed together, screaming into each other's mouths, calling for more, more, more…

And then she's gone. I hear and see nothing but the door of the car closing in a hurried slam. I stand in the aisle dumbfounded for a few more moments, hand pressed to my kiss-bruised lips. My eyes catch on a flash of red wrapped around my fingers. I look harder, and see strands of her hair. I grasp them tightly and retreat to my compartment, unable to find anything to push Ginny Weasley out of my head this time.

Twelve.  
I see her once more when I exit the train, Hogwarts robes stuffed into my school bag. She's flagging down a cab, and gives me a pointed look: come closer. You know you want to.

My body's still on fire from our kiss. I touch my lips again unconsciously; not even my most vivid memory could reproduce this. She grins when she sees me, but I'm well aware of the red tint to her cheeks.

What do I do? It would be simple enough to cross this distance between us, get into the cab with her and let whatever happen, happen. It would be simple enough to drive myself insane with wanting her and just walk away. Wait for the next move she makes. See if she makes one at all.

How do I want to present myself? Would it be weak to go? Would it be weak not to? Does it show that I'm desperate, that I've just been waiting for her all this time, that I've never moved on? What if she's just using me? She's always been good at manipulation, getting what she wants from people without them even knowing. Maybe she doesn't even want me for anything more than sex, when she's bored, when she's horny. Maybe she doesn't know what she wants. Maybe she's trying to prove to herself that she's not in love with me anymore. Maybe this is all a game she's setting up for me to lose.

I don't think I could take another heartbreak from her. But maybe…

I can't take that chance. I cast my eyes away from her and Apparate home.


	4. part four

Sorry for the delay of this chapter; it took me a long time to get through it, simply because I wanted it to be really, really good. I'm so ridiculously pleased with how this story has turned out. Seriously, you guys just have no idea. So, I hope you all enjoy what you've all been waiting for..

WARNINGS: obsessive-compulsive behavior, indecision, sex, eight pages long, a lot of lyrics.

_But for the last time  
__You're everything that I want and ask for  
__You're all that I'd dreamed_

_And for the first time  
__I feel as though I am reborn  
__In my mind_

_And for the first time  
I'm telling you how much I need and bleed for  
Your every move and waking sound  
In my time  
I'll wrap my wire around your heart and your mind  
You're mine forever now  
Who wouldn't be the one you love and live for  
Who wouldn't stand inside your love and die for  
Who wouldn't be the one you love  
_- The Smashing Pumpkins, _Stand Inside Your Love_

The Wrong Shade of Red; Part Four

**  
Thirteen.  
**Fuck.

The apartment building looms over me, almost egging me on to failure. It's early evening and people are leaving and entering the building, giving me weird corner-of-the-eye looks with raised eyebrows as I pace up and down the sidewalk, staring up at the tall building incredulously, brow furrowed in thought, concentration, and worry.

How did I let him talk me into this? That ridiculous dragon, thinking he can rule my life by his manipulative ways and his smooth talking. Irritation flares within me.

"So she kissed you, and you just _let her go_?" he squawked, mouth agape. "The woman you've been pining after for three years gets the guts to actually approach your entirely unapproachable person, and you _walk away_?"

"What else was I supposed to do?" I asked in my defense, folding my arms over my chest. "There could be numerous reasons why she did what she did, and while one of them could be that…"

"No, it _is_ because she's still in love with you that she did what she did, you're just too afraid to see that you could work everything out again because secretly, you enjoy the misery that being apart caused you," he said harshly. "You know you want her, you know she wants you, but the thought of that potential heartbreak is making you freeze up from something that is going to be wonderful, for the both of you." He handed me my coat and forced a piece of parchment into my hand: her address scribbled in Harry's chicken scratch.

"Go, Hermione," he told me, a stern look to his greenish-silver eyes. "For better or worse, at least you'll finally know where you stand."

Currently, I'm standing in the lobby, staring at her call-up number for the billionth time – G. Weasley, 138. The phone is black and a little dirty. The door is glass and black metal and probably heavy. I could Apparate, but I don't know what her apartment looks like on the inside.

God, this is so stupid.

I walk out of the lobby, pushing the door violently to clear my path, and begin pacing the sidewalk again. I'm surprised no one has called the police yet on the psychotic messy-haired stalker mumbling to herself, but maybe this happens all the time in Ginny's neighborhood…

That's ridiculous. This is a nice neighborhood.

Okay, back to reality. This isn't about the quality of the neighborhood she lives in, or how tall her apartment building is, this is about the fact that she kissed me and I want to know why, and to know why, I need to call up to her apartment and ask her to let me in, and if she does that, then a plethora of events could take place, but I'm trying to not to think too hard about any of them, because by doing so, I'll talk myself out of doing anything in the first place.

Which is, in essence, what's happening right now.

God. I hate being so… so…

I huff in exasperation and pick up the phone, punch in her numbers. Half a ring later, she answers.

"Yeah?"

"Ginny… Can I come up?"

A pause. I can almost feel her grin through the receiver.

"Sure. I'll buzz you up."

I wait for the noise to start before hanging up the phone, and manage to pull the door open just in time. Triumph swells in my heart, but is quickly quelled by the nervousness churning in my stomach.

The elevator takes too long to get to the bottom floor. I fidget in the lobby, get too warm, take off my jacket. I put it back on when the elevator gets here. Take it off again when I get off. The hallway pans in and out in my vision. This is a bad idea, this is a bad idea…

Her door is in front of me.

I take a deep breath in and will my hand to knock.

Nothing happens.

This is a bad idea, this is a bad idea…

Just go, Hermione, I can hear Draco's voice chastising me. Just do it.

My hand balls into a loose fist, moves towards the door, my wrist flicks back a little…

And then the door opens before my hand, moved by motivation, can follow through, yet it stays in disappointed hope.

"I figured it would take you a while to knock, so I just thought I'd get you inside now, before it gets too late," Ginny Weasley says to me, standing there in a green t-shirt and dark blue jeans. "So, come on in."

"Oh." I blush and follow her inside.

**Fourteen.**  
She wordlessly takes my coat from me and hangs it on a hook by the door. We move into the living room and she gestures for me to take a seat; I choose a comfortable position on the squishy, chardonnay couch. She sits in a chair across from it.

"So, what brings you here to my humble abode tonight, Hermione?" she asks pleasantly, as if we're old friends catching up. Her mood is strange, but I know it. She's trying to make the ambiance light so, when things get serious, they become more dramatic.

"I just wanted to see you," I tell her, repeating what she told me on the train.

She quirks an eyebrow. "Why's that?"

I smile in a secretive way, trying not to give her too much. "Just because…"

She waggles her finger at me. "Not a good enough answer. Try again."

"Well, what would you expect me to do after you kissed me like that?"

"You mean, after three years of nothing?" she asks, and I nod. She shrugs again. "I don't know what came over me, honestly."

She says it so nonchalantly; I can't help but catch the lie. "You've been thinking about it for months," I say softly, after a short pause.

Ginny just smiles at me, mocking my accusation. "I don't know," she replies.

"You don't know?" I dislike this game.

"Nope. Not at all."

I sigh audibly, making her half-smirk grow into a gloating grin. I frown to offset her cockiness, trying to figure out a way to win this without sacrificing too much of my own pride. Even though I came to her, I still have to pretend that this is something I'm not sure about. In all honesty, I think I've been sure about this since right after we broke up: I want to be with her. So how many moves will get us to that point again? I was never that good at chess, but I know the Weasley family breeds champion players; Ron is the only person in known history who has ever won a life-size game. Ginny's putting her pawns into place to distract me from the royalty; her rooks and bishops are guarding the slips of tongue that could get me to checkmate.

"Then why'd you let me up here?" I ask, trying a new angle.

"Because though watching you debate about it for half an hour was mildly entertaining, I decided it was time to end your emotional turmoil," Ginny says, and I feel my face get hot. "Besides, I told you before – I want to see you again."

"But what does that mean?" Desperation creeps into my voice against my bidding. "There's a big difference between going out for tea every once in a while and…"

"And having a relationship?" Ginny finishes for me.

I nod. "Precisely."

Ginny crosses her arms over her chest and leans forward, false arrogance oozing from her demeanor. It's this arrogance that I find so annoying, and yet have also found so attractive about the redhead. The way she can hold herself, make people believe in her self-confidence and that cocky grin, and then let it, as a mask, slip on and off at will…

"The question is, Hermione," she says to me, voice slightly huskier than before, "what do _you_ want out of this?"

I'm not surprised by the question, but more surprised by the timing. I wasn't expecting that blow on my rook until much later in the game, but I see she's willing to go straight for the king – it's always been instant gratification for her.

"That's not what I came here for," I answer, a little indignantly. "I came here to find out what you wanted."

Ginny's eyebrows raise and she doesn't speak for a few moments. I wonder if I actually captured one of her key players with this move. But then, she surprises me again. "I should think it to be obvious." Her voice is low, soft, honest. Her eyes are suddenly cloudy blue and fixed upon me, unblinking, daring me to challenge her, demand of her an explanation.

But I'm tired of these games. Waiting has made me weary, and three years is a long journey. Here she is, unreadable, when I need her to be an open book. Here she is, unyielding, when I need her to give me some ground. Why can't I simply take what I want, as she does? I wanted her, but she's the one who first plucked me from my closed petals, opened my flower to her golden sun, and kept me in constant spring. I need to be open again, feel that warmth again.

"But it's not obvious," I cry out, standing, an action I don't remember taking. "You're so goddamn sure of yourself, you lead people on, take what you want from them and then leave them, make them hang on your every word, watch your every move, yet you never, ever display what you really want, from anyone." I'm in front of her, and she's standing too, a surprised look on her beautiful features. "Why can't you just tell me? Why must you always play games with people, with me? Why has it always been about manipulation and hiding the truth? Why can't you just tell me?"

**Fifteen.  
**Our bodies are so close; I just realize this. Our bodies are so close I can feel the heat of her breath softly tickling the tiny hairs around my ears. The electricity of her skin is crackling, testing against my flesh. I look her in the eyes, breath now hard to come by.

"What do you want, Ginny?" I whisper coaxingly, longingly. My hand reaches out and touches the bare skin of her forearm; goose bumps rise, on both of us. "Why can't you just tell me what you want?"

I don't, I can't wait for an answer. My eyes stay open as my face moves closer to hers to watch her reaction; her eyes glaze and become out of focus and her lips part slightly. I find her to be so beautiful in this moment I want to cry, but I will them back, for now, and focus now on my own lips, touching hers, gently, a soft kiss. Her response is immediate and just as gentle. Everything else happens automatically; her arms wrap around my body, one around my waist, the other around my shoulder blades, pulling me closer. My hands cup her face, move to her hair, remembering every small detail that I had almost forgotten.

She pulls away first, fear mingled with pleasure, astonishment evident in her expression. Her eyes are still glazed and now a light blue-grey with specks of green. I stay close to her and simply stare, waiting for her to speak, aware of my heart beating hard and fast in my chest and heat spreading in my abdomen, like a hand outstretching fingers to the rest of my body. I feel so vulnerable and I don't want her to see, though I know she can. She could always tell.

"Hermione," she says, and her voice is low and husky. "I…" She swallows, tries to look away, but her eyes gravitate back to my face almost immediately. "You," she admits, "It's always been you."

I smile faintly in triumph and relief. It's all I wanted from this encounter, her confession, to hear the need in her voice that would match my own.

And yet there's nothing else to do. It's all I came for, but now, what do I want from her? What does any of this really mean; the renewal of our relationship, or a simple acknowledgement to the fact that we're still in love… but nothing will come out of it. I don't know or understand any of it, and it's making me feel anxious, as if there should be something else to catapult us into the future, wherever that future may be.

I want to ask her, but I can't get my voice to work. I know that we're being driven to something else by a force of our own, yet not our own. The responsible adult in me says that where we want to go is not somewhere we _should_ go; at least, not yet, not right now. But there is a hopeful heart residing in my chest saying that it wouldn't be that bad, the consequences will be minor.

I listen to that and throw caution to the wind.

"Ginny," I whimper, and I'm surprised at the sound of my voice, the change to it. I recognize the tone: there is desperation and need, but it's different, unfamiliar except in my memories. I feel seventeen again, with our "first time" hovering over our heads like an anvil waiting to drop. The expectancy and anticipation is heavy and nearly unbearable. I want her to kiss me and lead me to her bed.

She easily slips into the role of the experienced, that cocky half-smirk residing on her face, teasing me with her control over my emotions. She puts her hand under my chin and tips my head upwards, moves like she's going to kiss me – then pulls away when I part my lips to let her in. I try again, leaning towards her, trying to capture her mouth in a kiss, but am constantly let down. I whimper again.

"Hey," she says to me, like she used to in the past, "This is what we both want, right?"

I nod without hesitation. "Ginny, I've been waiting for you."

Ginny frowns a little. "What do you mean?"

I sigh and rub my cheeks with my hands: a habit I have when I'm asked to explain myself. "I mean that I've never stopped thinking about you," I explain. "I tried so hard, believe me… But every time I tried to fall in love with someone else, or have sex with someone else, there was always a mental block, because I knew, all this time, you were the only person who I could ever be in love with."

I've gotten myself so worked up I can feel the tears stinging in my eyes. One falls from my eyelashes and starts trailing down my cheek, but Ginny is there, rubbing her thumb over my sensitive skin to wipe the salty traitor away. I smile a little, but am so moved by the small gesture in the first place, that more tears start falling.

"Hey, hey, hey," she tries to calm me down, stooping her head so her face is level with mine. "Look at me." I do so, biting my bottom lip. "I never fell out of love with you." She's speaking slow and soft, to make sure I understand every word. It works; I try to focus on what she's saying, the connotation, the way her mouth moves when she talks. "I never… I thought about you everyday. I thought about calling you countless times. I've always asked Harry about you. It was pride and stupid anger that kept me from you but I know that everything's going to be okay now."

**Sixteen.  
**I breathe in deeply and then we're kissing again, hands roaming freely over cloth and bare flesh, skimming underneath the surface to tease and make dirty promises. Somewhere, our minds went blank and became overwhelmed by the reign of passion, but the sudden feeling of cotton sheets and a squishy mattress wakes both of us from our endeavors. Our bodies are twisted awkwardly, my arm squished between our bodies at an angle and her hip resting a little painfully on my thigh, where her leg is keeping my legs slightly parted.

I don't know what's happening.

I try to hide my face, bury it in sheets, but I can't get enough cloth in my fist to bring it over my eyes. We're both breathing heavily in short spurts, realizing just how much we had been kissing, how hard our unyielding passion had driven us. Of course, we agreed that this was what we both wanted, but it suddenly _there_ took us both by surprise. I'm not sure where to put my hands, how to hold my body under hers, because it's been so long since last our puzzle piece bodies fit together. The picture wants to be whole, but the contours of our separate bodies must come together correctly.

I reach my free arm around until my hand is at the small of her back, fingering the seam of her t-shirt delicately, before tugging up a little, hoping she'll catch my drift. We start kissing again, almost on cue, but her body is so pressed into mine, I can't get her shirt past her rib cage.

"Is this still okay?" I ask meekly, as she contorts her body to accommodate my ministrations.

All she does is nod anxiously and helps me take off the shirt, then pulls me into a half-sitting up position to pull off mine. She has difficulty with my bra clasp; she swears softly before she finally manages to unclip it completely, and I can't help but giggle.

"What?" she asks, mock-defensively. "It's been three years."

"It's cute," I reply, grinning at her. "You still can't get it unclipped. I thought maybe you would have been practicing in my absence."

"I didn't really think about it, I guess," she says begrudgingly, and she opens her mouth to say more, but I cut her off with a kiss, and we quickly forget about the conversation.

The rest of our clothes come off with little difficulty. Our hands become more adventurous as our bodies begin to remember all that had lied dormant for years. My fingernails claw her back to make her gasp; her fingers press into my hips; our mouths move to taste sweet necks and breasts, remembering and creating new memories.

Her hand moves slowly over my stomach, stroking her fingers to tickle the flesh over my rib cage and belly button. I swallow with a dry mouth and look at her, everything feeling so slow again. Her eyes are shining and alight with desire and love, her lips parted with anticipation, as our mine. She's hovering over me, her other arm wrapped under my back to keep me closer, to make me feel safe and loved. Her other hand is coming dangerously close to the point of no return, teasing my inner thighs and hipbones with her fingertips. I gasp and whimper, whine and moan in my throat, move my hips to make her go closer, make her touch me…

"Please," I beg into her lips. "Touch me."

She grins against my mouth and chuckles a little at my impatient insistence and only teases me more, skimming the slick skin without actually touching anything.

"You're still so mean," I whine.

"You're still so impatient," she replies mockingly. I ready a protest again, only to forget everything – my name, hers, the past week, the past three years, as her fingers begin stroking the honey-soaked flesh between my thighs.

My fingers curl, clutching at the fabric of the sheets and her back, scratching, clawing, I am a wild beast let loose in a valley of ultimate bliss. Pleasure rolls through me like waves and ripples, changing depending on the wind, the desire of the moon. Our eyes are locked, magically, though mine continue to go in and out of focus, closing when it feels like too much, just to be let down, taking two steps forward and one step back to the top of the mountain.

"You're a goddess," she murmurs in awe. "You're so beautiful."

I blush but have no time to make a returning volley. An orgasm crashes on my body, making me cry out her name. "Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh Ginny…"

Even as my body's quaking beneath her, her fingers suddenly move and slip inside me, making me inhale sharply. Her fingers thrust in and out, the friction making my hips buck into her hand, my legs trembling, my whole body trembling; I am at her mercy.

"Ginny," I whisper, moan in a strangled voice. My hand, shaking, reaches to cup her face, her sweet skin under my fingertips. I know what I want to say, but even now, at this moment, I can't find the strength to say it.

She knows. She smiles, brushes hair out of my face, and kisses me again, long and passionate, her tongue dancing with mine to the beat set by our conjoined bodies. I want to say I feel complete like this, wrapped around her body, our mouths locked together, touching me. I love it when she touches me. The puzzle pieces are finally put together.

I break out kiss to let loose the scream I can't hold in my throat, its magnitude choking me. Her fingers pause and press into me as my hips buck into her, as my fingernails dig into her skin, as my entire body rises off the bed, like I'm possessed by a devil. When I am finally able to settle back down, I cannot speak. I cling to her and bury my head in her neck and gasp when I feel her pull her fingers out. She pulls away to lick her fingers clean, eyes closed contentedly.

Ginny settles back next to me, arms wrapped around me comfortably. I always loved this about our love-making; after we each came a satisfying amount, we'd simply hold each other while the other regained her strength, talk a little. Sex was never _just_ sex with her. It was always something more.

That epiphany hits me squarely in the chest. That's what I was always trying to look for in other partners: that feeling of _something more_. I never found that until her, and I ever found it after her, and now that I've found it again…

Don't think about letting go.

I kiss her neck softly, then flick my tongue across the sensitive flesh. She gasps and I can't help but grin to myself. She pulls away to look at my face.

"Still pulling the same tricks," she chastises, and I shrug. "So predictable, Granger."

I grin again, a replication of her seductive half-smirk, and firmly press her onto her back, climbing up on her at the same time. As I lean over her, my hands holding her arms down, she blinks in surprise, but doesn't do anything to protest.

"Predictable?" I ask smugly.

She shrugs her shoulders a little. "Maybe not all the time," she mumbles, before I capture her lips with my own.

I feel clumsy and uncertain, but I try not to show it as I let my hands roam over her body, examining every curve that I had almost forgotten. My fingertips trace the swell of her breast and stroke her nipples, enjoying the feeling of them hardening under my ministrations; down her side, with just a hint of nail to make her moan, to make her anticipate; over her lips and down her thighs, hoping I'm still doing this right, that I haven't lost my touch.

(I'll admit it: I love the feeling of her skin. If I could, I would do nothing but run my hands over her body, over and over again, until the day I die.)

She bites her bottom lip when my hand hovers over her slick and heated flesh. She's never liked being teased, but has never liked asking for anything, either; it usually means a longer time for her to wait for what she wants. But I can't stand to wait any longer either, and as I lean over and press my lips gently to hers again, my fingertips dip inside her, testing the wetness, the warmth, the feeling of completeness that washes over both of us at the same time.

Ginny moans into my mouth and continues kissing me as I move my fingers inside her, everything falling back into place. My body remembers how to make her cry out, how to make her moan and cum and scream and call out my name. My mind remembers what they all sound like; they haven't changed. That's what's so amazing about right now: it feels like we've been transported back three years ago, when everything was perfect and we made love on a regular basis and still got embarrassed around each other. When she would scratch my head and call me her kitty-cat; when she would caress my cheek and call me her pretty girl.

God. Everything is wonderful.

She chokes out monosyllabic words and pleasure-clouded commands; _fuck me_, _harder_, _oh, please, faster, oh Hermione --_. I oblige, pressing harder into her, pulling in and out, occasionally pulling out altogether to play with her super-delicate clit, making her cry out in simultaneous surprise and pleasure. When she comes, she comes hard, her muscles clamping down hard on my fingers and her arms holding me just as tight to her body. And oh, she's crying out loud as a siren, an unbridled sexual scream of pleasure that I can't even comprehend with my brain, but I can feel my body reacting, the heat that's between my legs again already from what _I_ was doing to her.

She loosens her grip and falls back on the bed, panting heavily. I push her hair away from her sweat-dampened forehead with my free hand and we smile at each other softly, as lovers do. She nods once, an old signal, and I slowly pull my fingers from inside her, putting them to my mouth to taste her again. She watches me, but says nothing. It's so quiet in this room I can hear our heartbeats pounding almost in rhythm.

"That was wonderful," Ginny tells me, and leans up to kiss me. I kiss her softly and then settle to rest my head on her chest to better listen to her heartbeat. Her body is hot, as if fever-stricken, but, then again, so is mine. I love this.

"I'm glad you enjoyed yourself," I murmur sleepily, nuzzling into the softness of her breasts.

She giggles a little as my hair and eyelashes tickle her skin and she makes a noise of affirmation. "I really missed you, Hermione," she says into my hair, her voice resonating through her chest, like talking in a cave. "I don't think you could ever know how much."

"Oh, I understand," I reply softly, kissing her breast once. "Trust me; I think I know."

We don't talk for a while, but the silence doesn't seem forced or awkward. I try to analyze the situation and how I'm feeling, but there's nothing to think about; or, at least, I can't get my brain to think about anything besides the softness of her skin, the warmth she's radiating, and the happiness I feel in my heart. It's in this warm glow that I drift off to sleep.


	5. part five

Wow. I really can't believe this is the end. I'm so proud of this story; I love how it turned out. I put a lot of heart and soul into this story. A lot of _me_. Thanks for all the reviews. I've been writing like a maniac lately (if you didn't notice), so I'm sure I'll have something new for you all soon.

_You don't do it on purpose  
__But you make me shake  
__Now I count the hours 'til you wake  
__With your baby's breath,  
__Breathe symphonies  
__Come on, sweet catastrophe  
__Well, maybe this time I can follow through  
__I can feel complete  
__Stop paying dues  
__Stop my rain from falling  
__Keep my oceans calm  
__This time I know nothing's wrong  
_- SoCo, _Hurricane_

The Wrong Shade of Red; Part Five

**Seventeen.  
**I wake the next morning to a warm body curled against mine and locks of auburn spread across an unfamiliar pillow. I smile sleepily to myself, at Ginny Weasley's sleeping form, and the fact that it wasn't all a dream in my head. Our nakedness and the fact that I'm even here says it all.

I feel a shiver run down my back and realize that I'm uncovered. I glance over at Ginny and see that the bed sheets are wrapped around her like a cocoon. I scoff a little, but can't help but smile again: some things never change. I start tugging at the blankets, murmuring at her gently to get her to give them up. After a few more tugs, she grumbles something back at me and complies, the bed sheet still warm from her body heat.

I find myself examining her face, as I always used to do. Her freckles have, perhaps, lessened in numbers over the years, but there's still a light sprinkling of dots across the bridge of her nose and under her eyes. A lock of her hair is hooked on the other side of her nose, curling outwards; it's so adorable I can't help but start laughing.

"Why are you laughing at me?" she whines sleepily, yawning before the last syllable has left her mouth. She moves her hand to wipe the sleep from her eyes, and I catch a hint of silver on her hand. A ring?

"Because you're too adorable for your own good," I tease her gently, nuzzling our noses together. "Good morning."

She smiles at me, her eyes bright and sincere. "Good morning, Hermione."

Oh, her eyes – they always catch me. I'm mesmerized by them, the clear blue-grey with a hint of green around the pupil; the same color they always were when we were together and laying like this, happy and oblivious of anything wrong in the world. In them, I could see the ocean, the stars, our first kiss, our last kiss. Everything worth knowing, everything worth seeing, was encompassed within them.

"What?" she asks, uncomfortable and blushing.

I grin. "Your eyes," I tell her softly, "are absolutely gorgeous."

Her blush deepens and she covers her hands with her face, but she's sure to poke her eyes out from between her fingers. Her embarrassment is real but she loves the attention I give her; it's a contradictory nature that we both share and revel in.

But now my eyes aren't seeing the blue, but the silver on her left hand. I focus in and feel something sink in my stomach. A… claddagh ring, heart facing towards her, taunts me in its perfectly detailed silver.

"I have to go," I hear myself say, the perfection of this world I had created crashing down around me at super speeds. All my stupid ideals destroyed by the glance of an eye.

I start to lift myself off the bed, but resistance keeps me grounded. Her hand is on my wrist, encircling it, keeping me down with her. I stare at her with a fearful, hurt look in my eye; she stares back in confusion.

"What are you talking about?" she asks, hurt and confused.

"You…" I can't even say it. I finger the guilty ring with my free hand.

She bites her bottom lip and looks away, eyes glistening. Is she crying? "Right," she whispers with bitterness and pain in her voice. "That."

"What _is_ that, Ginny?" I demand, perhaps harsher than I should. "Were you even going to tell me?" I start to move again, but again, I am held down.

"Don't leave, Hermione." I look down at her. Yes, she is crying. I feel my own tears stinging my eyes. "Please, don't leave me again. It's not…" She sighs. "It's not like that. And yes, I was going to tell you."

"Do you love her?" I blurt, the words burning the back of my throat like bile.

But I am saved; Ginny scoffs immediately and shakes her head. "Of course not," she replies, as if the idea is ridiculous. "I love _you_. Didn't you hear me last night? It's always been you. I don't want to be with anyone else."

I feel a blush and a smile on my face before I can help it. I collapse back onto her body and bury my neck in my face, tears still spilling from my eyelashes. "I love you, too," I mumble into her soft skin. Those words are liberating. Somehow, this is going to work.

"Do you mean that?" Ginny's breath tickles my ear.

I nod. "When is your… When is she coming home?"

"At noon." I glance at the clock on the night stand: 10:16.

"I should go, then," I say reluctantly.

I move my head so I can look her in the eyes again. They look sad, but knowing. A confrontation would not go well. We know this. We've lived this, or something like it.

"I'll stop by your flat later," she tells me.

I smile. "I would like that." I kiss her again, softly, though somehow, it quickly becomes heated. All of a sudden, we're scrambling for each other, hands everywhere, grabbing hair and breasts, legs intertwined and hips moving, emitting gasps… My head becomes clouded as the moment takes control, all thought of leaving pushed aside.

The sound of a door closing catches both of our attentions. We pause and look at each other, then the bedroom door.

"Did you hear that?" I whisper to her. She nods, once, an uncertain expression on her face.

"Apparate out of here."

"I don't have any clothes on!" I protest. "There's not enough time—"

The bedroom door opens. Ginny quickly pulls the sheets over both of our heads, pushing her body hard against mine. I want to tell her that it won't do any good; it's very obvious there are two bodies in the bed - _their_ bed – but a woman's voice interrupts me.

"What the fuck, Ginny?"

Ginny sticks her head out from under the sheets. "Look, this is easily explainable," she says slowly and loudly, trying to keep her voice calm.

"Like hell it is. Who the fuck is she?"

I hear something breaking; Ginny doesn't reply for a few moments. "Listen, Kate, can you just wait two minutes for us to get dressed?"

"That's fucking ridiculous, Ginny, and you know it."

"Please, Kate," Ginny pleads.

I'm trying to keep myself from freaking out. I want to Apparate away, clothes be damned. Harry and Draco have both seen me naked before. Besides, they might've expected this. "Is she a Muggle?" I whisper.

Ginny glances at me. "Yeah."

"So it would be a bad idea for me to Apparate."

"Yeah, probably."

"I'll meet you in the living room, I guess," Kate snarls, and I hear the bedroom door slam shut again.

I allow myself to relax a little. Ginny runs her hands over her face and sighs, loudly. "I'm really sorry, Ginny," I mumble, guilt washing over me like cold water.

"No, it's fine," she replies. I give her an odd look. "No, really." She grins at me. "This is… This is what should happen, right? We need to be together, Hermione. Everything's going to be okay." We kiss again, though manage to keep it tame. "I love you, Hermione Granger, and no one else in the whole world is going to change that."

Tears sting my eyes again; her sentiments have always gotten to me. "I love you, too," I echo softly, before following her lead off the bed to get dressed.

**Eighteen.  
**Ginny holds my hand as we leave the safety of the bedroom, to the confrontation waiting for us in the living room. Kate is waiting for us, sitting on an arm chair with her legs and arms crossed, a small suitcase sitting on the floor next to her feet. I swallow; I have a feeling this is going to go badly.

"So, uh, I guess you've sort of already met," Ginny fills the silence awkwardly. "Kate, Hermione."

"Is that your real name, or your street name?" Kate spits at me.

I look at her in shock. "Excuse me?" I say indignantly.

"Kate, chill the fuck out –"

"I find _you_ in bed with some whore and you tell _me_ to _chill the fuck out_?" Kate shrieks.

I'm shaking with anger; being insinuated that I'm just some whore, lacking substance and importance, by some woman I've never met, is making my blood boil in rage.

And yet… Wouldn't I have done the same thing?

I try to tell myself it's different. But it's really not.

Ginny's talking; she's dropped my hand. Kate's standing and screaming at the top of her lungs, flailing her arms, spitting insults like a cat. Ginny's grabbing at her arms, trying to get her to sit down, screaming back, defending me.

And here I stand, wondering of the fairness of this situation.

"You ruined my life!" Kate screams at me, straining against Ginny's weight to come at me. "Ginny loved me, and you fucking ruined everything!"

"If Ginny really loved you, do you really think she'd go to bed with someone else?" I scream back before I realize what's happening. "Ginny doesn't do that to the people that she loves, no matter how bad the situation is. _She doesn't hurt the people she loves like that_."

Kate goes quiet and stops struggling. I feel the silence in the air like a heavy fog, suffocating my lungs. Ginny's staring at me with three years ago reflecting in her eyes. Kate's staring at me with the shock of now slapping her in the face.

"She doesn't love you," I say, softly but matter-of-factly. "Don't you understand? It's never been you. It's always been me."

She doesn't protest or raise her voice again. She doesn't say anything at all, but sinks back into her arm chair, my words sinking in with her. After a few long minutes of silence, she speaks. "I think you should leave now, Hermione," she says slowly, without looking up from her hands.

"Indeed, I should," I agree, and look at Ginny. Ginny nods, gestures to the front door. I smile softly at her; she returns it half-way, then mouths 'I'll come by later' before my back turns, and I exit.

**Nineteen.  
**Hermione sat in the mirror trying to fix her hair. The strands of cinnamon brunette twisted around her hands, becoming tangled and even more unmanageable, and every time the girl thought she had finally won and achieved the hairstyle she wanted, the locks would fall back limply around her shoulders.

"Having problems?" asked a redhead, face and body half-on, half-off the glass. Half her mouth was amused and smirking.

"I can't get it to do anything," Hermione grumbled in complaint to her, attempting again with more fervor to get it to submit to her will. "No matter how much product…"

Ginny moved and came up behind her, her hand snaking around to run softly down her body, resting on her hips. Hermione stopped breathing and watched their bodies, pressed together, in the mirror.

"You don't need anything like that," Ginny whispered in her ear, watching them as well. "You're beautiful, Hermione. Besides, if you put stuff in your hair, how am I supposed to run my hands through it while we're making love?"

Hermione blushed, but didn't want to rise to the bait that easily. "Who says you're going to get any tonight?" she asked, one eyebrow cocked.

But Ginny just grinned and nipped at her neck, her ear, making the brunette gasp softly. "I do," she said. "And I know you want me, too. Because we were made for each other."

They kissed their way back into the bedroom, and didn't make it to their movie date that night.

**Twenty.  
**I fuss with my hair in the mirror but finally give up, letting it hang in its curly, wavy glory to gently brush my shoulders. I'm waiting for her to come to me, a lost lover on the casement or on the seashore, looking for a horse or a ship or some telltale sign of her. Fortunately, all my tragedies have already happened, so there's little chance I'll end up with a gun to my chest or a knife to my wrist within the next hour. But I can feel the frustration and impatience flowing through my veins like adrenaline and alcohol, worry making me snippety and unwilling to converse with my fellow roommates.

But I exit my bedroom anyway and return to the living room, to restlessly flop onto the couch and turn on the television. Commercial after commercial greets me, American shows with bad actors and wicked grins, French shows with strange humor and no real plots (since that night with Fleur, my opinion of the French has gone down considerably).

"This is so ridiculous!" I snarl, tossing the remote down and stomping to the kitchen. "It shouldn't be taking this long!"

"Well, if you think about it, they were living together," Harry reminds me, as he hands me a cup of tea. I take the stuff gratefully and start sipping it; anything to do with my mouth and hands. "I'm sure they'll now have to negotiate furniture and other things."

"Ginny just sold the apartment," I say sulkily, but grudgingly nod my head. "I guess. But it's almost two o'clock. I left four hours ago. How long could it take? Unless…" I can't finish that thought past the cold feeling in my stomach. She wouldn't – would she?

"Give Ginny more credit," Harry warns me. "She obviously sacrificed a great deal to even see you to begin with, to get this all figured out. And I know that she's missed you. She wouldn't be foolish enough to let you slip through her fingers again."

I shrug a little. I know he's right, but insecurity has always plagued me.

"Damn straight I wouldn't," I hear a voice behind me, and nearly melt with relief. I turn to see the redhead of my dreams standing in the living room, three duffel bags over her shoulders.

"I let her in," Draco says proudly from behind her.

I grin and put down my tea cup to throw my arms around her, kissing every inch of skin I can get a hold of. She laughs and returns the greeting threefold, making me laugh and blush. I haven't felt this lighthearted in years. She's the only person who's ever been able to do this to me.

Draco and Harry took the duffel bags from her and put them in my bedroom. With the two men gone, a rush of self-consciousness swells over me like an ocean wave, and I'm caught soaking in the presence of a goddess, white t-shirt, no bra. Another thing the redhead excels at: making me nervous.

"We're going to cook dinner," Harry calls to us on his way to the kitchen, Draco trailing behind him like a blonde puppy. I see him wink at us mischievously before raising his hand to smack Harry's ass.

"Draco!" we hear Harry yelp as I lead Ginny into my – our? – bedroom, and laughter slams into the door as I shut the door gently.

"Sorry about them," I mumble, casting my eyes to the floor. Why am I so afraid?

Ginny shrugs. I see it out of the corner of my eye. "I'm just not quite used to them being together, y'know?"

I nod, half-grinning. "Yeah, try living with them," I joke.

We go quiet for a few minutes. Finally, Ginny says, meekly, "I thought… that's what I was going to do."

I swallow a little and look up at her through my eyelashes. A blush is rising on my cheeks. "Yes," I reply softly. "You are."

"I mean, I really don't have anywhere else to go," she continues. "I sold our apartment, as you might've guessed, and all of our furniture… All my clothes are here now." She gestures down to the duffel bags. "I just have to go back soon to get the rest of my stuff from Kate's place."

"How did she take… everything?" I ask, out of curiosity.

Ginny sighs. "Better than she did initially, but it still wasn't good," she admits. "There was a lot of explaining that she still didn't understand and a lot of yelling and more explaining… In the end, I think all she got was a vague picture of you and me having a relationship that wasn't crap like hers and mine was. I just feel bad for her, I guess."

"That you didn't love her like you should've?"

"That I didn't love her at all."

Silence falls again. We're not even touching. I don't know what to do.

"Ginny…"

"Yeah?"

I breathe in deep and try to speak. "Are you sure you want to do this again?" I muster the courage to look her in the face, voice frank and questioning. I want to know. I _need_ to know.

Ginny's mouth twitches on one side, up to that infamous half-smile. "Hermione, I would be sure even if we had broken up a thousand times. I'm never going to give up on us."

Her voice, in all its sincerity, makes my eyes sting and my throat constrict. Yes, this is what we both want, isn't it? I feel her pulling me into her arms as the tears begin to fall; somehow, we manage to be lying on the bed, bodies curled into each other comfortably.

"Obviously, we won't really be able to pick up where we left off," I murmur into her neck, just enjoying the feeling of our warmth melting into each other's bodies.

She nods. "No, but… It'll still be nice. We'll just see how everything goes."

I smile and pull away a little, to look at her. "Yeah, we will."

She kisses me and I run my hands through her hair. We smile at each other. The simplicity, the perfection, it's creating something like happiness in me. No, it is happiness. I'd just forgotten what it all felt like.

"So, what's this I heard about a pixie girl and clubbing?" she asks point-blank.

I blush and sit on top of her, fingers still playing with her hair. "Who told you?" I demand, red rushing to my face.

"So it's true?" She cocks an eyebrow teasingly.

"I – I was drunk!" I sputter. She starts laughing.

"Hermione, I'm not mad," she says, reaching up to touch my face. "If I were mad, I wouldn't have brought it up. I'm glad that you got some nice action while I was gone."

"It wasn't that good," I mumble.

She shrugs. "And I heard you were in a relationship not too long ago…"

"Yeah." I blink when I realize how little time has passed since Hannah and I broke it off. "About a week ago, actually."

"Oh?"

I smile a little. "It was nothing; along the lines of Harry's ex," I explain. "Her name was Hannah. She was a real bitch. She was a redhead."

Ginny's curiosity is peaked by this. "A redhead?"

I shake my head a little. "It didn't work out."

"How come?" Her fingers trace my lips. I shiver from the contact.

"It was the wrong shade," I answer honestly.

Her smile is slow in coming, but it blossoms like a beautiful flower and calls butterflies in my stomach. They flutter throughout my body, tickling my heart, and I kiss her again.

"I love you, Hermione," she whispers into my lips.

I smile into her. "I love you, too, Ginny."

"I think it'll be nice to get to know you again," she says, playful now, her hands trailing featherlike over my stomach and sides. "And I'm really glad you finally gained some weight. You're beginning to look more like you did when we were at school."

I shrug a little self-consciously. "Living with Harry was good for me, I think," I reply, mostly thinking out loud. "He's a boy, so he doesn't buy into female drama and body issues and the like… He pretty much crammed food down my throat at every possible moment."

"I'm glad you listened to him, at least." Her eyes glance over to the clock on the nightstand and she sighs a little. "I should go pick up the rest of my stuff while Kate's at work," she tells me reluctantly.

We pull ourselves off the bed, untangling our limbs as we go. I feel fear returning to me like a bad disease that makes me weak in the knees and stung in the eyes. I don't want her to leave again. What if's attacking my brain like a bad record playing over and over again.

"You're coming back, right?" I ask anxiously. I pick at the hem of my top.

Ginny half-laughs and pulls me into an embrace, forehead to forehead. "Of course I'm coming back. I'll see you in an hour."

Her words calm me. I know she's coming back.

We kiss again and she waves goodbye to the boys as she Apparates, her body disappearing with a pop. I go to the kitchen to help the boys finish dinner, dreaming of a life I'll have with a certain redheaded goddess.

---  
It's crazy how much can happen in a week. Lives change, twist, turn to take new meaning, a new direction, or back to an old path that one had disregarded. Ginny lives with Harry, Draco, and I and life is how it should be. It's not perfect. It's not always extraordinary. And yet I've felt a peace of mind and heart I haven't felt in years. I laugh and smile. I feel alive again. That certain shade of red, that color of passion and love, is back in my life and painting the world around me. It's always been my favorite color. She'll always be the one for me. No matter how many lives I may live, no matter how many times we might quit, our hearts will never be the same without each other. That, in itself, is extraordinary. I never want it to be any other way.

**End.**


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